One Long Awkward Moment
by StrawmenandPapertigers
Summary: This story is the result of a challenge. The challenge: South Korea and (OC) Puerto Rico meet in a Victoria's Secret while Alfred acts as a bro in the background. Challenge accepted. See inside for more (terrible) details. P.S. I'm sorry for the nonsensical nature of this story.


**Disclaimer: This is the result of a friend having me pull random characters and plot devices out of a hat. We call it the hat method, and we think it's going to pioneer a whole new era of (nonsensical) writing. So yeah, that's why this is…This. I'm sorry. **

It began, as much of his worst troubles did, on a Monday morning.

Yong-Soo leaned against a wall, arms crossed against his chest and eyes screwed half-shut against the artificial light glaring overhead. He'd arrived at Victoria's Secret early as usual—a full forty-five minutes before opening in fact—and while he would always hold his job in the highest regard, he was more than a little miffed at the fact, after nearly three hours of waiting, no one had so much as glanced at the store, let alone stepped inside. In all honesty, Yong-Soo was more insulted than bored at the lack of customers, taking the lack of patronage as a personal offense.

"How can a city with a population of almost nine million people not have a single person in need of underwear?" He wondered aloud in the half-angered, half-disappointed tone of the unjustly slighted. "Or a bra fitting? Come on ladies, a whopping eighty-five percent of you are currently wearing incorrectly-sized hooter harnesses, so what are you waiting for?! Stop mistreating the gifts that God has so graciously bestowed upon you!"

He was pausing to take a breath so as to launch into a monologue about the glory of the female figure when Yong-Soo sensed someone standing behind him (in actuality, he was alerted by a perfumers valiant attempt to bottle the scent of an ocean breeze.) Turning around to the source, he found himself face to face, or, more aptly, chest to face with a teenage girl.

The potential customer was five foot nothing, with wavy black hair hanging past her waist, half-closed eyes and clad in a turquoise hoodie so oversized that it made it a mystery as to whether or not she was actually wearing anything between it and the socks pulled up to her mid-thighs. Yong-Soo's mind, already peculiar on its own and spurred into overdrive by his previous boredom, began to race with bizarre ideas as the girl drew a long sleeve across her face and let out a yawn not unlike the mewl of an irritable cat.

Was she a truant high schooler? An overworked college student? A test tube-grown sleeper agent designed with the express purpose of throwing her victim's awareness off with her cutesy appearance before opening them up from throat to groin with a rusty Spork? A-

Yong-Soo was pulled out of his increasingly bizarre internal raving by the girl's surprisingly low voice drawling tiredly "Can I have a triple shot of espresso and a bagel please?"

Not knowing whether to laugh or give his forehead a clichéd exasperated slap, he decided to take a third option and, being the generally nice guy that he was, alert the obviously confused girl to her location. After all, he was pretty sure that his ninety percent black ensemble was a universal requirement for anyone in the service industry, so being mistaken for a barista wasn't too grave of an insult.

"Sorry miss, but you're in Victoria's Secret. Not a coffee shop," Yong-Soo began. "But, I can direct you to one if —Oh shit!" He said, grabbing her by the shoulders when she began to sway forward. He frowned when her eyes shut and her head began to nod, wondering if maybe she was high on something. Yong-Soo sighed, shifting her so that she was tucked beneath his right arm. "Maybe I can leave her on a bench or something," he muttered as he turned the two of them towards the exit.

They were almost out of the door when suddenly he realized that his arm was curled around empty space rather than a body. Bemused and somewhat impressed at how she'd managed to slip out of his grasp without him immediately noticing—superior senses were invented in Korea-screw Japan's so-called ninja skills —Yong-Soo spun around, only to find that the girl was now completely awake, her previously half-lidded eyes wide and alight with what he could only describe as a crazed gleam as she rapidly folded and sorted the panties stuffed into the bargain bin in the middle of the store into neat piles according to size, color, pattern, and, so far as he could tell, material.

Admittedly, her wild expression was one with which Yong-Soo could relate. It was the enthused expression of one who was in the midst of doing what they loved, and it was the look that he himself wore whenever he was measuring women's busts, skipping first base and heading straight into second, digging into his mother's manduguk, extrapolating on the superiority of the Korean auto industry (Alfred had put him in a chokehold when he said that any country who had invented the Pinto was automatically the world's most prolific salad tosser in the area of car manufacturing), or—The point was, Yong-Soo understood was it was to look like you'd just downed an entire can of crazy while in the middle of something, and as such, he was somewhat loathe to interrupt the girl when she seemed so genuinely pleased, and was doing his job for him, besides. On the other hand, she looked as though she were about to turn the entire store upside-down in her fervent attempt to arrange everything in a manner that was acceptable to the standards of her OCD. He was pretty sure that would be a bad thing.

Before he could take his first tentative step towards her, the girl ran at him so quickly that Yong-Soo could have sworn that she left an after-image behind, hands outstretched like claws and her expression predatory. He let out a (manly) shriek and threw up his arms in order to shield his face. However, rather than the spine-jarring tackle that he had been expecting, he instead felt a breeze rush past him. A wary opening of his left eye showed him that rather than attacking him, the girl's prerogative was apparently to straighten out one of the mannequins near the display window. Once it had been placed at an angle deemed satisfactory to her, she then proceeded to fish a bottle of hand sanitizer out of her pocket, squirt a generous amount of the clear liquid onto her hands, and frantically rub her palms together. After thirty seconds of her hand cleansing ritual ablutions (there really did seem to be an almost religious aspect to the thing, judging by the reverent look on her face), she stowed the bottle back into her pocket, straightened out her hoodie, and, looking almost disturbingly composed, proceeded to browse through a nearby rack of matched sets of bras and panties.

Yong-Soo blinked. "Haha, what the hell? Talk about bi-polar…" Then his eyes lit up excitedly, bewilderment at the strange display utterly forgotten at the opportunity presented to him. "Time to aid a customer!"

Taking care to make a sufficient amount of noise to alert her to his presence rather than silently come up behind her and then proceed to loom (that had almost gotten him stabbed the first few times-New Yorkers were crazy-prepared), he walked up to the now calm girl, winning smile in place. "Welcome to Victoria's Secret," he said cheerily. "Can I be of any assistance?"

In response, she blinked a long, almost deliberately slow flitting of her lids. Combined with the fact that her eyes were not only oddly reflective but had mismatched irises of bluish-green and amber, the effect seemed almost unnatural, not unlike the simulated blink of a doll with unfixed glass eyes.

"Uh…" Yong-Soo mumbled unintelligibly before recovering. "So, yeah…Uh, do you need any help?" He attempted again. _Weird. _

After what seemed like several minutes but in actuality was probably only around ten seconds or so, the girl, after much deliberating, finally responded to him. "I think I'm wearing an incorrectly sized bra," she said in the same sort of voice that one might say 'it's raining.' "I'm wearing a 32DD right now, but…" She paused, looking as though she were having an internal debate with the voices in her head before bringing her shoulders up in a shrug. "It'll probably be easier if I just show you." With that, she proceeded to unzip her sweater and painstakingly fold it before setting it aside atop a nearby display stand before repeating the process with her T-shirt.

Yong-Soo was utterly horrified. Not at the fact that she was displaying her breasts to him with the casual indifference of a presidential candidate claiming to care about the needs of the people first and foremost, but at the fact that the poor girl's bra was acting more like a prison to her assets rather than support.

The band was clearly too large, as it was riding up her back like a drunken cowboy, while the straps were cutting into her shoulders to the point of redness in their desperate attempt to constrain her chest. Rather than lying flat, the gore stuck away from her ribcage at a nearly ninety-degree angle, as though it were trying to fly away in a bid for freedom. And the cups-Good God, they were simultaneously giving her quadraboobs, boobshelf, and shoving the flesh that they couldn't contain into her underarms, all while her breasts attempted to escape their taut confines in seemingly every direction, including some not yet known by man. It was a breast connoisseur's worst nightmare…The tit trifecta of terror.

Yong-Soo wanted to weep at the injustice of it all.

But they (okay, he was the only one who called himself that) didn't call him the Hero of Hooters for nothing. He was the man who could estimate with ninety-six percent accuracy the size, shape, and symmetry of breasts, natural or otherwise, with just a glance. His hands had touched hundreds of breasts (and no, he was not talking about those of blow-up dolls, thank you very much you filthy unbelievers.) He was the only male employee allowed to measure female customers, his skills were so good. He knew and loved breasts, and they knew and loved him, damn it, and he would sooner self-immolate than allow this pair to undergo anymore mistreatment!

So, Yong-Soo steeled himself and grabbed his measuring tape from out of his pocket, snapping it like a bullwhip at the nonplussed girl standing in little more than her bra and denim shorts before him. "It's time for you to get a proper fit," he intoned gravely.

"…So _that's _what I look like while straightening up," observed the girl as he advanced on her, eyes wild. If she was going to say anything else, the words were cut off by him wrapping the measuring tape first around her chest, then her ribcage, and finally her bust in rapid succession whilst simultaneously calculating and committing their measurements to memory.

Hanging his trusty measuring tape around his neck, Yong-Soo turned towards his latest victim, er, customer with a satisfied air, smiling broadly. "According to my often highly accurate calculations, your measurements are twenty-eight inches around your chest, twenty-five around your ribcage, and thirty-six around your bust, so, you ought to wearing a 28H." Upon receiving a confused look from the obviously dumbfounded young lady, Yong-Soo's smile merely widened.

"You see, a myth has been perpetuated amongst women worldwide," he began. "But that's all it is; a horrible, filthy lie." Yong-Soo's expression darkened. "For years, people have thought that DDs were the end-all cup size, and that anything beyond that was a horrifically oversized monstrosity, when the reality is that most women are in fact wearing incorrectly sized bras. Oversized bands and undersized cups abound in nearly eighty-five percent of women. _Eighty-five percent!_" He barked, causing the girl to blink confusedly at his righteous fury. It was, he noted, a good sign; every other woman had fled from him in terror when he'd given them this spiel. Although, whether her calm acceptance of his ranting was the result of genuine interest in his topic or just another facet of her ambiguous mental state, Yong-Soo wasn't sure. Maybe she was just too freaked out to leave, although he really couldn't tell from her impassive expression. Either way, he had a willing audience, which was a rarity, and by God was he going to take advantage of it.

"In fact, the method touted by this very store is a farce!" He continued. "Adding an additional four inches to the ribcage measurement…Madness! Also, please don't tell my boss I said that. Anyway I, Im Yong-Soo, am here to tell you the truth about your breasts," he murmured, his voice increasing in volume with every word. "They're not comically oversized! They're full, and round, and bouncy, yet surprisingly perky…And…" His eyes glazed over as they drew down, seemingly involuntarily, to her cleavage. In the minutes that had gone by, it seemed as though her breasts had made some headway in their escape attempts from the undersized cups of her underwire, looking for all the world as though they were about to burst free.

And then, it happened. The impulse that he thought he had overcome after graduating high school swept over him full-force, as though every nerve in his body had proceeded to overload and then burst into flame. His heart began to hammer against his ribcage like a junkie in need of a fix pounding against his dealer's door. His hands shook like an alcoholic Parkinson's sufferer. He began to sweat like a pedophile in a ball pit. _Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no, no, no. Don't do it Yong-Soo, don't you dare fucking do it-_

All of his attempts at restraining his deep-seated impulse were an effort in futility. Ten years of therapy were nothing more than money down the drain. Every instance of being forced to kneel and carry a bucket of water above his head, of having to cut his own switch from the tree in the backyard, every thwack of the rice paddle in a parental attempt to beat the compulsion out of him before the neighbors ran them out of town…They were all for naught. Quick as a snake, both of his hands shot out, grabbing firmly onto the ample breasts laid out before him, and, in a voice that could be heard by his ancestors from the Goryeo Dynasty, Yong-Soo shouted, "Your breasts belong to me! DA ZE!" The final two words were uttered so loudly that it caused a nearby mannequin to fall over, hitting him in the back of the head and causing both himself and the unfortunate girl, who was watching him as though he were a mildly interesting television program, to fall to the floor in an ungainly tangle of limbs, his hands still placed squarely on her bosom, as though her breasts were ball-bearings and his hands had been magnetized.

Even as he found himself slowly stirring towards awareness of the sort of repercussions that his actions would later have, Yong-Soo found himself more disturbed at the fact that throughout this entire spectacle, the girl didn't so much as blink. Here they were, he sprawled out on top of her on the floor of a Victoria's Secret with him groping her bra-clad breasts, and the most that he could say of her was that she looked resigned. Maybe vaguely interested, but that was probably just a trick of the light and wishful thinking.

Disengaging himself from her, Yong-Soo opened his mouth to apologize, only to be interrupted before he could form the words 'I'm sorry' by several highly overweight security guards leaping off of their mopeds and launching themselves at him. From the tiny space between the large, sweaty bodies swarming him that he was allotted, Yong-Soo saw, much to his consternation, that the girl had, despite putting her shirt and sweater back on, remained there, staring at him with those odd eyes with of a sort of serene oblivion, as though she was floating through some infinite void wholly apart from the universe.

"I have _got_ to get some of whatever she's on," he muttered before he was yanked to his feet and roughly escorted to the mall jail.

**A/N: **I…I think this broke my brain. Please review so that I can convert the reviews into money so that I might pay for my therapy.


End file.
